


A Four Year Old Charm

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breakfast, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Good Dad Scrooge McDuck, Inspired by Nightmare on Killmotor Hill, Pre-Canon, only slight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 15:20:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20566532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: It's six a.m., and Scrooge has a job to do.But first, breakfast. It's always a family affair.





	A Four Year Old Charm

It arrived in the usual way - dawn, a kaleidoscopic scale of cool black, mauve, purple, pink, and desert sand.

Its glow tickled him awake. Or that was the intention. Opportunity and possibility stirred him an hour ahead of schedule, and he opened his curtains to view the skies' then cool black. After a quick stretch, he grabbed his robe and prepared to undress for his morning shower.

The day of the week and its agenda determined the length of his morning baths. It didn't extend for longer than an hour. He hummed as warm water, now cooled with coins, drenched his feathers, but the feeling was fleeting. His thoughts were occupied on the work waiting for him at the bin.

By time he finished his bath and brushed his teeth and dressed himself, twenty minutes passed. He stood in the hall in front of the open washroom door, straightening his top hat. He looked left, then right, and one more time, left. He flipped pocket watch cover open.

_Five minutes to six,_ a tight pinch around his mouth leveled his smile. _I hope she’s ready_. The cover returned to its clock with a murmur of a click, so gentle and quiet. Metal met metal and feet scurried. Scrooge smirked. His feet ambled to the room an entire hall from his. Its smooth front was almost identical and would have been if not for the symbol carved on its skin.

Mummy insisted he permitted its presence originally, and so did she. Far from superstitious, Goldie was certain to punch him for the suggestion, but she wavered the first time the issue was discussed. He noticed her needled brow and distant scowl, so far away whenever he mentioned his parents.

“It’s an old wives tale, silly superstition of the old ways,” he patted her hand. “We don’t need that for our future.”

A simple phrase, an encouraging line to soothe her qualms, but Goldie read him like a book. "You want to preserve your investments," she said, placing her hand on top of his. 

It was true. He preferred - they knew - not to fret the cost over each door purchased during the mansion’s original construction. Zeros and ones and twos and the occasional three bounced across documentation and onto his line of vision. Keep the doors until they dwindled into splinters or dealt him a promising sale; that was his intent.

“McSourdough,” she laughed, distant. A marked glaze pricked her irises; much like an allergy skin prick test. Eleventy pygmy needles pricked into her pools, creating a manic calm. “Just put it in,” the ice broke, she laughed again. Harder. Tighter. As if she needed to stitch this belief into her soul too, “It won’t hurt, and it’ll make your ma’ happy. I don’t want her blaming me -,”

“She isn’t like that.”

“Of course not,” she paused. And there was the stiff smile, the sort of smile used to placate fussy children when nothing was going as expected. Her brow popped in a rise, a sharp rise and sudden fall. She leaned in her chair and squeezed his hand back, “Can you do this? For me?”

He could. He did.

His middle fingers grazed on the outline of the triquetra. His stomach squeezed tight, so much he imagined its insides kissed.

Without warning, the door swung open, and Scrooge held a tiny gasp, attention pulled below.

“It’s 6:01 a.m.,” she said, annoyed. Her her identical scowl was far from threatening at this height. “You are late.”

“No contractions?”

“Only when you are late.”

* * *

Breakfast was one of the few meals Scrooge indulged in. His congested schedule and lack of skill required to make delicious, healthy meals pushed the duty onto Duckworth. His long time butler was fortunately occupied, and porridge was simple enough without causing a kitchen fire.

He added a dash of nutmeg and sugar, mixing it together as he poured half a cup of milk. Like most children, she waited at his side, having grabbed her stool for a better view. To still her enthusiasm, she gripped the counter edge. At the sound of her grumbling stomach, Scrooge chuckled and cupped her bowl in his grasp.

Her eagerness sought the dining table; her high ponytail bounced like a balloon on the back of her head, three seconds too slow. She scrambled ahead and climbed to her booster seat set on the corner chair closest to his.

“Here you go, Opal darling,” he placed the bowl to her front. He couldn’t stop joy from spreading his beak into a warm smile and didn’t try to. She tapped the table excitedly, gripping her spoon.

“Yummy,” she spooned the porridge. “Yummy tummy.”

He assumed his seat at the head of the table. She was content spooning her porridge, ensuring the sugar particles were evenly distributed. He spooned his bowl similarity. Satisfied with the aroma, she raised the spoon to her beak, and Scrooge was at a loss as to what to think. She was a small, tiny duckling; most typical for their species. But to Scrooge, she was the most unique jewel he'd ever lay eyes on. She was going to blow her porridge down to a reasonable temperature without burning her tongue, and she was such a big girl that she, like most big girls, dressed herself that morning, done without Duckworth's assistance.

For her sake he pretended not to hear aforementioned butler passing the brush through her hair, and he certainly didn’t notice his long term servant walking to her bedroom carrying her day time clothes. Like Scrooge, he also waited outside the door until she was done.

“Careful, dearie,” he reached for the spoon handle. “It’s still hot.”

She nodded, beak set in a serious line. Her tongue stuck out tentatively, and she licked the porridge in a quick swipe. “Not too hot,” she mumbled, stuffing the spoon into her mouth with a happy hum. He loved the way her feet swung under the table, blissfully unaware he could feel the distant breeze. He spooned his porridge and swallowed his first spoon, unable to contain his joy with the scene.

“I want to go to work with you,” she declared, following her fifth spoonful. “I want to go to the bin.”

“Ah, lass, you know Daddy has a very important business meeting to attend.” He raised his head and beak, tilting it above her head as if he were a lord. She giggled. “And besides, your Aunt Hortense and Uncle Quackmore would miss you.”

“I know,” she exhaled, drawing her shoulders close just to released them in an exaggerated motion. “It is unfortunate, but I...," she paused, looking away as she sighed with a sharp rise of her shoulders, "I don’t want to see Della.”

Scrooge snorted but held firm on not spitting his porridge out. He swallowed, crossing to pour a cup of tea for him and her. “Now, Opal darling,” he said, casting a stern if inquisitive glance at his four year old, “why don’t you want to see your cousin Della? She loves you.”

Opal’s brow squinted tightly, reminiscent of doves crossing over the morning horizon. “She’s - she’s too loud,” she started, shoving a seventh spoonful in her mouth. “And she always want to climb trees during story time!”

“I thought you liked climbing trees?”

“I do, but not during story time.”

“And what of Donald?”

“He sometimes follows, or he helps Auntie in the kitchen. He likes to pretend he’s a chef.”

Scrooge chuckled. “His mummy is an impressive cook,” he reached and pinched her cheek softly.

“Daddy.”

“I said impressive, not good.”

She sighed, "Do I have to go?"

He didn’t like having to tell her no. Genetics was diabolical for allowing a four year old to be that cute, that endearing. No matter the temptation, he was her father and wanted to establish strong family bonds, especially with her similarly aged cousins. Family was important, far more important than she was able to grasp at her age.

“I understand,” he said at last, pinching the gentle evidence of whiskers on the side of her cheeks. “It’s difficult getting along with someone whose personality is different from yours, but they’re your family and love you very much. They’d be disappointed if you didn’t come.”

Opal, in an act becoming of her youth, glanced downward to her mostly eaten porridge bowl, contrite. “I don’t want to make anyone sad,” she whispered. A pin drop of a tear swelled in the corner of her eye, which quickly pooled. The act repeated in the other.

Scrooge’s heart leapt to his throat. He rushed out his chair to kneel beside her. “Oh, my bonny bairn,” he grasped her hand, petting it sweetly. “You are a sentimental one, aren’t you. No, no, you won’t make anyone sad. How about this? You can spend half a day with me at the bin, and at lunch time you will go to your aunt and uncle’s home, yeah? It’ll be a great way to start your day.”

“I can sit in the meeting with you too,” she sniffed. “Or I can go to Mr. Gearloose?”

“I think he may have his grandson with him,” Scrooge mused aloud, then shook his head. “Ack, the lad is too old to be bothered with a wee bairn like yourself. You can stay with me, and we will visit your cousins in the afternoon. Sounds like a deal?”

She wiped her eyes with a sleeve. “Yes,” she kissed his forehead. “I like this deal very much. Thank you, Daddy.”

“Of course, my darling,” he patted her hand one last time. He gripped the table edge to stand, ignoring the sharp pain in his bad leg. “Would you like to speak to Mummy?”

“Not right now,” she resumed eating her meal. “I’m busy.”

Out of the mouth of babes, he wondered, fascinated at the seriousness of her expression when the words were spoken. So simple. So curt. He liked to believe she’d make a grand business woman someday. But for now the present showed her as his little girl, his darling Opal, one of his great treasures he wasn’t willing to share with the world. At his seat he sipped his tea cup and offered her hers.

“Oh, she is good,” Goldie later laughed during their late afternoon phone call. “She played you like a fiddle, just as expected. I’m proud of her.”

He wanted to admit he knew this from the very start, but examining their morning routine, he succumbed to a four year old's charm. Again. His annoyance at his failure was short-lived; he glanced at the framed drawing on his desk, its caption written in a child's script. She tried so hard and was so little. _Mummy, Daddy, Duckworth, and the Executive Board_...in front of a bin three times larger than the one he was sitting.

"Yes, she did," Scrooge sighed dreamily, clutching the phone to his ear. But the smile on her face and laughter in her eyes could met a heart of gold, and there wasn't any shame in that. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's cute to know Scrooge is the same, old grump. He's an old grump who loves porridge. I couldn't escape the idea.


End file.
